


In You I Crash Cars

by five_ht



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-25
Updated: 2011-04-25
Packaged: 2017-10-18 16:18:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/190794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/five_ht/pseuds/five_ht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Eames jokingly calls Arthur a slut or a whore before or during sex, and finds out that Arthur gets off on name-calling. Eames takes this and runs with it. Dirty talk, very eager Arthur and very dominant, cocky Eames.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In You I Crash Cars

"It is so late," Arthur observes, staring incredulously at his watch, as if being escorted out through the back door of the empty pub wasn't a good enough hint.

"You could just say it's early," Eames says, possibly philosophically, idly wondering how long it'll take them to get back to their hotel in this state. He glances around the alley, taking in dented bins and one discarded shoe. This is likely the seediest place his dapper young escort's ever been. Speaking of whom, Arthur is grabbing Eames' arm urgently, licking his lips.

"I'm drunk."

"That's good," Eames tells him, grinning, "I wouldn't want to be lonely."

"You…" he licks his lips again, then moves faster than Eames can process, pressing their mouths together sloppily. "You should fuck me," he finishes, quite seriously.

"What, right here?" Eames laughs, taking a step towards the street. He pauses when Arthur stays rooted to the spot, biting his lip and taking in a sharp breath, and he _must_ be drunk if he's even so much as considering letting Eames fuck him in an alley in Amsterdam.

"You are just full of surprises, love," he murmurs appreciatively, getting in Arthur's personal space and backing him against the brick. Eames gets his knee up between his thighs, delighting in the immediate moan. Taking his chances, he starts to suck a mark into Arthur's neck, high above where any of his shirt collars will be able to hide it.

"Fuck," Arthur gasps, rutting, already hard. Uncharacteristically ungraceful hands fumble Eames' pants open, and Arthur lets out a raw, unabashed _moan_ when he gets his fingers around Eames' growing erection, and Eames really fucking loves drunk Arthur.

They're really not coordinated enough for anything more complicated than this, but Eames makes what he can of it, biting and licking at any exposed Arthur parts he can find, growling and shoving him roughly against the wall whenever he hears Arthur whimper. He's gasping himself when he registers another noise, muffled babbling against his neck.

"What was that?" he pants, pressing his thigh up farther for Arthur to ride it.

"Ahhh – I—" Arthur tries, his voice deep and unsteady with arousal, "… get back to the hotel, wanna suck your cock, want – want—" he shakes his head, lost for words, and Eames kisses him, deep and sloppy and perfect. Another moan undoes him, and he comes into Arthur's clumsy hand, some rough approximation of his name ripping from Eames' throat.

"Arthur, beautiful," he breathes, laughing through his aftershocks, "I'd have given you absinthe ages ago if I'd known it would turn you into this delightful, filthy little slut."

It seems to catch Arthur off guard as much as Eames – he stiffens, mouth open, giving a cry that could wake the neighbourhood as he comes into his ludicrously expensive pants. He slumps against the wall when he's done shuddering, boneless, trusting Eames to hold him up.

Well. That was interesting.

\--

"I have a theory," Eames announces, tossing his bag to the floor of their hotel room as Arthur places his carefully on the desk.

"I bet you have a lot of theories," Arthur replies with genuine and complete lack of interest, still poring over the notes he's been hiding his face behind since they left the workshop.

"Fair point. This one happens to be testable, though," Eames says, sidling up behind Arthur and kissing the nape of his neck softly. Only Eames would notice the crack in his nonchalance, the way he stiffens and ticks his head, losing concentration.

"… Are you going to make this a guessing game?" he asks.

"Oh, I think you'll figure it out soon enough, clever as you are." Eames pulls Arthur's shirt up slowly, freeing one tail from the waistband of his pants and scratching his nails lightly over the jutting hipbone underneath. Arthur sighs, and out of context, it would sound long-suffering, but right now he's reaching back, gripping Eames' hair – still not dropping his notes.

"I think," Eames continues, dipping his hand to press his palm against Arthur's crotch, "you're going to like my experiment… Possibly more than I will."

Breathing unevenly, Arthur lets the folder fall to the table. "I really do have work to do, Eames," he says, without conviction, leaning forward into Eames' hand. He lets his head drop back, lips pressed together tightly as he tries, as always, to keep his noises in.

"Mmm, but you can't say no, can you? Whores never say no."

Arthur lets out a small, rough moan, bitten off at the end as he catches himself, tries to put his guard back in place. Spinning him around, Eames quickly takes in the flush of his cheeks, the lower lip caught between his teeth, the defiant stare. Eames smirks.

"I'm never wrong."

Then Arthur is on him, frantic, heat and frustration in the way he presses their lips together, kissing Eames like a challenge. Eames crowds him against the desk, lifting him with a firm grip around his waist and setting him down on it, bending him backwards.

"Fuck you," Arthur snarls into his mouth, and Eames can see his deepening blush when he opens his eyes, " _Fuck_ – say it again."

Eames licks at his bared teeth, reaching down to yank Arthur's hands away from him and wrench them behind his back. "You're a slut, Arthur," he breathes, and it rolls off his tongue far easier than it should, so satisfying when Arthur quivers, nodding in either encouragement or agreement. He struggles against the hold Eames has on his wrists, wrapping his legs around Eames' waist and locking his ankles as violently as one can manage such an action.

The motion brings their unfortunately still-clothed erections into contact, and Arthur growls, grinding almost hard enough for it to be painful.

"Fucking starved for it, love. My filthy little whore… Just mine," Eames whispers, adding the last bit without thinking and almost regretting it until Arthur moans into his neck.

" _Yes_."

Releasing the slender wrists from his hold, Eames gets his hands under Arthur's ass and lifts him from the table, spinning them and stumbling the few feet to the bed, Arthur savaging his neck the whole time. He drops him, all limbs and grabbing hands, onto the mattress, trying not to laugh at the look of bitter betrayal he gets when he doesn't immediately fall on top of him.

"Get your clothes off," Eames says, leering. Arthur is panting, still glaring, but he obeys, pushing his pants and underwear down, pulling his shirt buttons open, tugging at his tie. He lets it all fall to the floor, for once not caring or even looking at where his ridiculous clothing – _a good suit is an investment, asshole_ – lands.

Stepping away, Eames reaches into his suitcase to produce a bottle of lube, spreading a little on his fingers. "A whore should know when to spread his legs," he observes, smirking when Arthur obeys immediately – _so_ unlike him – and parts his thighs, shivering, moaning low in his throat.

" _Whores_ get _fucked_ , too," he growls, a little breathlessly, fingers twisting in the bedspread in a way that looks like he's trying not to reach out and just pull Eames down to him.

Eames grins, crawls onto the bed to hover over Arthur, counters, "Whores know how to beg."

Arthur gives a groan that's almost as much frustration as it is arousal, lifting his hips for Eames' slippery, probing fingers, nodding in that way that Eames is starting to take as agreement.

"You – fuck," he tries, squeezing his eyes shut as he's stretched, not as gently as he's used to, "Fuck, fuck, harder."

Humming, Eames pulls his fingers out a little, nowhere near deep enough to be satisfying. Arthur gasps, rolls his hips, tries to get it for himself, but Eames weighs him down.

"Beg for it, Arthur."

"Please," he says, just gritting it out, and there's not much conviction behind it, but Eames pushes back in, still just two fingers, still really just a tease.

"You're getting there, pet, you're getting there. Tell me what you want," Eames purrs, running his free hand down Arthur's squirming torso.

" _Fuck_ me," Arthur hisses, defiance slowly being overridden by urgency, " _Please_."

"This isn't enough?" he asks, twisting his fingers inside.

"No, no," body tenses, head shaking. His voice is deep and rasping, and Eames doesn't think he's ever seen Arthur so overcome, broken up and desperate.

"Why not?"

Arthur is flushed, looking pained and fucking beautiful, breathing up to the ceiling in little whines with each careful stroke inside him. "It's not -- _big_ enough," he manages, fighting Eames' weight to try and move his hips.

Eames kisses him quickly, spreading his fingers and giving Arthur a little more stretch and burn. "You want it deeper, don't you?"

"Yes," just a whisper.

"You want my cock?"

" _Yes,_ " nearly a sob.

Eames smiles, and it doesn't feel as condescending as he was aiming for. "Tell me why, beautiful. Tell me why you want it so bad."

"'Cause—" his breath hitches, he swallows, then he drags his eyes open to look at Eames, startlingly bare. "'Cause I'm a whore."

"That's it," Eames says against his cheek, pulling his fingers free and opening his pants with shaking, overexcited hands. He's too impatient to get rid of any of his clothes. "Just a whore, Arthur, look how desperate you are."

"Jesus," he fists his hands in Eames' shirt, tugging insistently as Eames tries to slick his cock without so much as leaning away from Arthur.

The first push in is like being strangled and liking it; both of them gasping for air as Arthur tries to loosen after what was probably too little preparation, and Eames tries to think about anything that isn't Arthur's gorgeous, hot, fucking _tight_ little ass.

"Oh, fuck," he gasps, letting Arthur's hips jerk up and down as he adjusts, spreading his legs further like he's just trying anything to make it fit.

"Eames," he says shakily. Their eyes meet and Eames gives a smile. Arthur returns it with a little gasp and a huff of laugher, then shakes his head, grasping Eames' hair with two hands and letting the smile become a smirk. "Fuck me like a whore."

Eames is pretty confident he can do that.

He pulls out without finesse, slams back in, watching Arthur's face break up with pleasure and pain. Another thrust, then another, and it's frustrating, there's too much _give_. He grapples with Arthur's legs for a second, gets them up and over his shoulders, leaning forward. Arthur groans as he's folded in half, panting for oxygen that's just a little harder to get with Eames weighing him down like this.

"You'd let me do this all day," Eames rasps, and it isn't a question, because it's exactly what Arthur wants to hear right now. He snaps his hips, fast and brutally hard, and continues, "Let me keep you like this, dripping with my come and open and used up and still _gagging_ for me the whole time… such a perfect, dirty little slut."

"F-fuck, ah, ah," Arthur tugs at his own hair, at the bedclothes, at Eames' shirt. He's shattered, beyond a real response, just nodding and groaning at the words.

"Fucking gorgeous," is all Eames can manage then, exertion and mind-numbing arousal finally taking his ability to speak along with most higher brain function. He's reduced to thrusts and moans, watching Arthur lose himself, gasp for every breath, choke on his own whimpers.

When Arthur comes, he surges up, pushing his noises into Eames' mouth in a bruising kiss. He shudders and bucks, coating both their chests in come, trying to meet every thrust and drag it out, make it last.

He doesn't go passive when it's over, either; he just clenches and bucks, reaches down and grasps Eames' ass to pull him in deeper, if deeper is even possible. His whole world narrowing to points of contact, Eames lets Arthur pull him over the edge, coming with a throat-searing shout. It lasts for longer than he expects and not nearly long enough, and he mouths Arthur's calf, pressing his mouth to anything he can as if that'll make everything last longer.

An indeterminate amount of time passes, both of them rocking and panting, before Eames hears Arthur speaking into his neck. "… fucking breathe."

"Hm?"

Arthur grunts, shoving at Eames' dead weight with an exhausted air, "Get _off me_ , I can't fucking breathe."

"Ah," Eames rolls away, falling onto his back. In his periphery, Arthur gingerly lowers his legs, letting them sprawl on the mattress. They lie, just breathing, until Eames is feeling clever enough to start speaking again.

"I would, you know," he says, giving Arthur a sly look and swatting his hip lightly. "I'd keep you here all day. Don't pretend you wouldn't like it," he grins as Arthur rolls his eyes.

He sighs, shaking his head and smiling in mock regret, "Sure, but who's got the time?"

"Being the best at what I do, I've actually got quite a lot of free time on my hands. Just because _you_ need to practice so much…"

Arthur groans, rolling towards him and throwing one leg heavily over Eames', eyelids already dropping. "Eames."

"Muffin?"

"Just shut the fuck up."


End file.
